


space(dust) & fine metals

by quillquiver



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Asexual Castiel (Supernatural), Blow Jobs, Captain!Dean, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gray-Asexual Castiel (Supernatural), Hand Jobs, M/M, Mechanic Dean Winchester, Outer Space, Pilot!Castiel, Prince Castiel (Supernatural), Space Gays, intergalactic travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:13:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26861203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quillquiver/pseuds/quillquiver
Summary: Castiel wonders, often, if his blue blood is not just as tainted; only a wild thing groomed to tame a wild people would flee. And flee, he did. The ship was calledImpala, its purpose mysterious enough for its mechanic-cum-captain to take one look at the offered credits and nod.Or,On their eighteenth anniversary, Dean and Castiel retrace their steps.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 21
Kudos: 75
Collections: Asexual Supernatural Mini Bang 2020, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	space(dust) & fine metals

**Author's Note:**

> Suuuuper huge thank you to my fantastic partner [severepaperdragon](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/severepaperdragon) :) She was a total joy to work with, and her art is ADORABLE! Another big thank you to the mods of the bang, aaaaand I hope you like this dumb thing that was supposed to remain dumb but then turned out really kinda personal instead.

_“I just want to love you, to love you, to love you well  
_ _I just want to learn how, somehow, to be loved myself.”_

— _Two, Sleeping at Last_

On their eighteenth anniversary, they retrace their steps. It’s little more than a fluke, Castiel knows; Eden is one of the biggest trade hubs this side of the Empyreanic belt—but it’s nice, all the same. To feel the spongey dirt under his shoes, smell the greenery… Cas thinks he can consider himself well-travelled at this point—thirteen systems and two galaxies are nothing to sneeze at—and the colours in Eden are still some of the most beautiful he’s ever seen.

Castiel makes himself comfortable by in the shade of a towering macroflos and roots through his satchel. His purchases are few, but they always are: fruit and sweets, when he can afford them. Cheese, sometimes, if it’s a specialty of the people. A book or two. Spices. A rock. This time, his biggest prize is a round, black disk from an oddity shop: Terran system, late 20th Century.

Dean is going to lose his _mind._

Cas reaches for the lumpy bright purple fruit at the bottom of his bag and sighs, wondering if it’s safe enough to consume out in the open. It’s been a decade since the Novaks had any power here, but showing his face is always risky—technically, he still has a claim to these people. _Technically_ , he should be living in a palace made of greenery, in a forest leagues from here, dressed in finery and with a circlet adorning his brow. They would call him _Sirraph_.

Castiel toys with the edge of his shemagh, exposing his mouth just enough to take a bite of the spiced, juicy fruit. He had always been told he was a wild thing; too curious, too engaged, too concerned. The Edenish—the true Edenish, who trace their lineage back to the Seraphim—they see through the paltry physical realm into what’s beyond. They are calm and of steady disposition. Unbiased in their opinions and unerringly fair in their judgements. They are above the weakness of the nephil—the commoner, the peasant, tainted by their ancestors’ desire to lay with those from other realms. Half-bloods.

Castiel wonders, often, if his blue blood is not just as tainted… for only a wild thing groomed to tame a wild people would flee. And flee he did. The ship was called _Impala_ , its purpose mysterious enough for its captain-cum-mechanic to take one look at the offered credits and nod.

Cas wipes his sticky chin on his sleeve and re-covers his mouth, squinting at his bare toes. It’s hard to imagine how young he was, back then. How naïve. How _scared_ —of course, in the end, it had been the eyes that gave him away. It’s always the eyes: a bright clear blue framed with long, dark lashes. His lineage had been the ships’ open secret until the war of succession—when the people were taxed over years to finance the search for an heir who seemed to care little and less for them. When it became dangerous to know Cas, and to shelter him. When doing so was called _aiding_ and _abetting_ and _treason_.

But the people of Eden never needed a ruler, and Castiel didn’t need Eden. He has a family made up of wild things, now. One who appreciates his curiosity and concern—one who is curious and concerned about him in return. He has travelled the far flung reaches of the Universe the way he used to lead solo expeditions into the deep, dark corners of the palace library, clamoring for knowledge at its edges.

In defiance of the willowy, pale vision he had been forced to become, Castiel’s flesh has browned from the light of one thousand stars and suns, his hands calloused and cheeks perpetually space-burned. Dean may be the captain, the mechanic… but Cas is the flyer. The pilot. He has lived on a planet with a suffering people and argues that no war zone is too dangerous. They call him the nebula—untouchable, uncatchable. He might not understand the inner-workings of the machine but he knows her abilities, guides her out of impossible corners and tight spots as surely as if she were his own wings.

It used to cause tension, his love for flying. Back when Dean wasn’t sure Cas wouldn’t commandeer his ship and leave them all for dead on some miserable rock or another. Castiel remembers that the thought had crossed his mind often in those early days. To have a ship all his own and travel had seemed the ultimate freedom.

Cas sighs into his shemagh, touching fingertips to the scar on his forearm. Food, water, medical equipment, learning materials… clothing. Books. For a million different peoples on a million different planets, _Impala_ has ferried supplies from system to system. Their suppliers were kept anonymous, their clients even more so; the whole thing had been shrouded in such secrecy that by the time it had been revealed, he’d had trouble understanding. All this time, and Dean Winchester was in the business of compassion. Of kindness.

When they had arrived on Terra, Castiel had asked for a job.

_You need me._

_This ain’t cadets, Highness. You’re not suited for it._

_That’s not true—_

_Sure, it is. Now take that big chip of credit you got stuffed in your sock and live out your new cushy life in peace._

_You keep it._

Castiel reaches up to clutch at the glowing light blue stone underneath his shirt. Those credits would be the first of many things he gave Dean. With time, Cas would give him his hands, his mind… his heart, first a thing borne of admiration and loyalty, then turned soft and sweet with affection. Castiel’s heart—his friendship, his love—is the most precious thing he thinks he has ever owned. He thinks, maybe, that it is the most precious thing any person owns, and so to receive it is an honour beyond honours. He thinks, too, that for all its importance, a heart is laughably easy to give away.

Finishing off his fruit, Castiel checks the time and begins to make his way back towards the ship, eyes lowered. He has no intention of claiming the throne of this place, and no interest in finding out if his mere presence would still be considered an act of war. Normally, he’d stay in the ship, but… after eighteen years, it’s nice to be truly back, if only for a little while. Eden was not home, but it meant a great deal to him for much of his life.

“You get me a present, handsome?”

Cas rolls his eyes as he walks past Dean, grinning under his shemagh.

“…Something steel, huh? Eighteen years is steel.”

“I thought it was porcelain,” Cas says lightly. “I got you a pitcher.”

“A pitcher.”

Cas shrugs, moving through the ship. He makes his way to the galley and immediately starts unloading the most delicate of his spoils into the coolbox. Presses the ancient touchpad on the door and rolls his eyes. “Whoever disabled the touchpad, _please_ do not eat my cheese!”

Dean narrows his eyes. “You got me a _pitcher_ ,” he repeats. “A… steel pitcher?”

“Eighteen years,” Cas reminds him. “Porcelain. Beautifully crafted.”

“You know those Terran traditions are ancient, right? We’re talking mid-20th Century.”

“Says the man who cites them every year, asking for steel.”

“Hey,” Dean laughs. “Steel’s expensive!” He steps forward, hands tugging the material from Cas’s face before sliding down to his waist, thumbing the divots of his clothed hips. The kiss he presses to Cas’s mouth is soft and sweet and definitely not suited to the chaos of take-off. “Thanks,” he smiles. “For your dumb Terran pitcher.”

“I never said it was Terran,” Cas grins through their next kiss.

Dean shrugs and loops his arms around Cas’s waist, pressing their mouths together with more intent. With a sigh, Castiel drapes his arms around Dean’s shoulders. He likes this; there are many things he likes, where Dean is concerned, but the way he sighs against Cas’s mouth, and wraps his arms tight around his waist, and—

“Hey lovebirds, sometime before I’m forty.”

Dean smirks against his mouth, giving a loud, exaggerated moan as he buries his hands in Cas’s baggy tee. He’s laying it on thick, stumbling back to block Jo’s path to the coolbox and Castiel can’t help laughing as he’s pulled along. They bump up against the counter and Cas pulls away, playfully pushing Dean’s face away when he draws near. “Don’t you have a ship to captain?”

“Don’t you have a ship to _fly_?”

“Not without orders.”

“I mean, if you want me to order you around…”

Jo gags into her yogurt.

~ * ~

The Impala is not a fine ship. She used to be; before the days of lightweight polymers, all machines were made like her; pure steel and alloys… a sharp paint job and a spacious interior, designed for long-distances and harsh conditions while sacrificing little in the way of comfort. Her galley is sizeable, her rooms decent, and despite other ships her age oft finding themselves in scrap yards across the twelve systems, Dean keeps Baby in the best metals money can buy.

She’s not meant for racing or war, but she’s great at supply running. Some of this is Dean’s expertise, but most of it is owed to Baby’s lineage; a failed line of family transport vehicles that guzzled space dust but excelled in reliability. Cas thinks they could probably take her to the edge of the Universe and she’d keep going. This feature of hers is useful for times like this; barreling towards the next pickup, Baby can be left on autopilot for family meal.

Castiel laughs as Kevin reaches for the bread disks, hand darting out to claim one for himself before they get passed around again. Spiced to perfection, buttery and soft and just—delicious. He narrows his eyes as Dean plucks the bread from his hand with a wolfish grin, reaching to pick another two and quickly depositing them on his own plate. Immediately following, a booted foot toes up Cas’s calf. Dean’s grin has turned crooked and shy, and there’s a flush to his cheeks as he shoves the disk in his mouth. He chews with his mouth open.

Cas, incredibly, has never loved a person more.

He reaches under the table to hook a finger in Dean’s pocket, taking a bite of his own bread. They rarely act like this anymore: the result of a lifetime together and living in close quarters with family… but it’s nice. He’d forgotten how nice it is. To have his chair pulled closer by Dean’s foot so they’re pressed together from hip to shoulder. To turn and rest his elbow on the table, cheek in hand, and look his fill like the love-addled idiot he is. To be caught in each other’s orbit.

Dean either doesn’t seem to notice how obvious they’re being, or he doesn’t care. He acts as if Cas is the only one at the table; serving him, flirting with him. He touches Cas’s wrist as if he needs to be persuaded to spend the night and sways into his space for a thousand almost-kisses.

And when Cas finally looks up, they’re the only ones in the room. “Maybe we should…?” he says quietly.

Dean grins.

They touch and tease and half-run to the bedroom, and despite Cas vowing aloud that he has to give Dean his gift because they always forget, they’re always distracted by one another and so exchange them the morning after but this time, _this time_ —

~ * ~

Someone told him, once, that there is no way to become wrapped up in another person if not for sex. _Sex is what gives people the desire to be close_ , they’d said. _It’s what fogs the mind, what creates the feeling of being lovestruck. The drive to procreate, to make a life with another person… there is no great love for you without it._

Laughable. Castiel pulls away so he can jump onto their sagging mattress and squirms up until he’s lounging amidst the pillows, crooking his finger in a perfect imitation of Dean’s god-awful antique porn. And Dean… Dean gives him that crooked grin again and chases, catching him in a breathless, smiley kiss. He’s lazy with love, the stuff softening his eyes and gentling his hands, rounding out his shoulders until they’re pressed together head to toe, kissing, kissing until they’re sore.

“You good?”

It’s a routine question, one that makes Cas smile as he nods, burying fingers into Dean’s short hair. He hums before pulling back, pecking his mouth once, twice, and grinning at the way Dean tries to follow. The way his fingers skate down Cas’s side to squeeze at his hips, pulling up his shirt and pressing palms to skin. It makes Cas’s blood quicken.

He takes a while to warm up, he knows; it’s part of the reason he’s done this with very few people outside of Dean. He burns slow if he burns at all, doesn’t make the right noises, is too preoccupied with the other person than what’s being done to himself. “Dean,” Cas murmurs, trailing kisses down his neck and tugging at his shirt. “You’re still dressed.”

“And?”

“I want to blow you.”

Outside, nebulas smear themselves across space-time, but their colour pales in comparison to the riotous blush of Dean’s cheeks. Even after all this time, the colour reaches his ears. Cas smirks as he pulls away, starting to divest himself of his own clothing. The smirk turns into a grin as Dean does the same, and soon enough Cas is hooking a freckled leg over his shoulder, turning to leave a line of wet, biting kisses all the way to Dean’s groin. He rakes his fingers through the reddish, wiry hair there.

“Didn’t have time to shave,” Dean mutters, the sentence breaking off into a low, pleased sound as Cas takes him in hand. Castiel licks a long stripe from root to tip in reply. Kisses at the head. Works him up to full hardness without a thought to what’s between his own legs.

Cas knows Dean’s body as if it were his own; he’s mapped every dip and curve as thoroughly as he would any unknown system—and he has known immeasurable pleasure in doing so. Dean’s brows furrow and he bites his lip, his body bowed in a perfect, flushed arc. He’s freckled and golden and bathed in starlight; more suited to the immortal beauty of a deity than a fallible interstellar rebel. He looks at Cas like he’s the most important thing from here to the Seventh System.

Cas has never looked at a person and wanted them in the ways most people do, but he can appreciate the look of someone. How they feel. How they taste. Dean is, perhaps, his only exception in this; Castiel has—known desire, with Dean. Not always in the same ways as everyone else, and not all the time, but Cas has known him in every way there is to know a person. He has traced the topography of Dean’s body from head to toe: the hills and valleys of his musculature, the fine-textured hair that peppers a line below his navel, turned coarse at his groin and the fine again on his legs and arms. The swell of his ass, the bow of his legs; the dip of his back and the arch of his foot.

“Cas…”

Castiel laves kisses up to the soft flesh under Dean’s navel and nips, marveling at the way Dean squirms. There are no shortage of miraculous things in the universe, but this—the knowing—puts them all to shame. It’s a privilege and an honour, Cas thinks, to be able to feel such things with another person. To hold them at all, but especially at their most vulnerable.

Dean tugs on dark hair and Cas shakes his head, moving to press a kiss to the inside of his wrist. He breathes poetry into the skin enough to make Dean blush, smiling when a calloused palm moves to cup his cheek. “I want you to come in my mouth,” he murmurs. “And then I want your hand.”

Dean’s palm has migrated down, the pad of his thumb resting on the flesh of Castiel’s bottom lip. Cas kisses him there. Looks up through his lashes. Dean is flushed from head to toe, now, and he nods vigorously. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, I can—I mean, if you want—”

“Mm.” Cas winks and gets back to work.

There is nothing more satisfying to him than giving his partner pleasure. It’s his favourite competition—besting himself, over and over, finding all the ways Dean can writhe and moan and beg and then giving him exactly want he wants, what he needs, better than before. Pleasing him and loving him, tangibly. It isn’t that he doesn’t like sex; it’s wonderful for the closeness it brings. For its more physical joys. It’s just—the physical act of sex is like scratching a mildly annoying itch. Or eating a bland meal. The pleasure is in giving, taking for himself is… lacklustre.

Dean had been confused at first, and upset: he’d wanted to reciprocate. _I want to make you feel good_ , he’d said, flushed and gorgeous, fondling Cas’s half-hard prick with a gentleness he had adored him for. _Like how you made me feel_.

But his every gasp and groan lights Cas up from the inside out; touching what’s between his legs pales in comparison. And there are different kinds of touches—holding, kissing, hugging—that make his heart race. Carding fingers through his hair makes him shudder and tingle like no orgasm ever could. _It’s not that you’re not skilled_ , Cas had said, repeatedly, in the hopes that Dean would not take it as a slight. That he wouldn’t look at him like a challenge to overcome or something to be conquered. _I’m just different_.

Dean had considered him, and then looked down at the placement of his hand, embarrassed. _Oh god, sorry_. He’d pulled away, but Cas had only shrugged: _Sometimes, being touched a little afterwards is nice. Would you kiss me?_

“Cas… _ah_ …”

Castiel hums around Dean’s cock, dragging a finger through the spit dripping from his balls and tracing down his perineum to press lightly against his hole. Dean keens. “Fuck, I—Cas, I’m gonna—”

Cas swallows everything he has to give.

He follows when tugged up, kissing Dean proud and sloppy, his own heart racing. “God,” Dean mumbles, returning his affections sluggishly. “I think you sucked my brain out through my dick.” He grins so wide their kisses are made impossible. “Can I…?”

It’s one of those nights; when Cas’s blood races and he _needs_ and _wants_. His brows meet as he pulls Dean’s hand between his own legs. “Please,” he breathes. “ _Please_ —”

But Dean only brushes his fingers over the root of his cock before pulling away. “Yeah,” he says, tugging at Castiel’s bottom lip with his teeth. He guides Cas into a seated position as he licks his palm and touches his prick.

Cas buries his face in Dean’s neck and clutches at his shoulders. “ _Mm!_ ”

“Chase it, Sweetheart. I got you.”

It’s a process. It always is—like trying to jumpstart a dying engine. Despite the fact that Cas wants to chase, he’s balanced on the knife’s edge of pleasure and frustration. If he thinks at all—about his physical response, about how normal it is, about anything other than Dean and how _good_ it feels—he’ll lose it. Castiel squeezes his eyes shut and groans, the thing turning into a gasp as Dean moves to tug at his hair.

“You’re doing so good, Cas, you’re so good.”

Five minutes pass, then ten, then fifteen, and then it’s beginning to look like one of _those_ nights—where Cas pulls away frustrated, touches himself to no avail, lays in bed wondering _why_. He’s starting to get restless, and from there it’s a sidestep to antsy and anxious and overstimulated. Between one moment and then next, pleasure turns to _too much_ and he’s gritting his teeth, pulling away from Dean’s grip and pushing at his shoulder to _let go let go let **go**_.

And then Cas is curled up on their bed, alone.

He pants into his bicep, arm covering his eyes as if the fact that he can’t see his partner makes him invisible. Despite the fact that this is just how he is, it never seems to get any easier. Especially on nights like tonight, where he’d been so excited by the prospect of—of being normal.

“…Cas?”

The mattress dips, and Dean holds a steaming mug by Castiel’s elbow, smiling sweetly. A damp washcloth is draped over his right shoulder and Cas forces himself to breathe deeply. Dean only wants to help. Dean wants to take care of him, and even if Cas doesn’t want to be touched right now, it’s worse if he isn’t. He nods, clipped and embarrassed, and reaches out for the tea, opening up so Dean can slot in right beside him. Their legs tangle and Dean nuzzles at the side of his head, pressing kisses to his hair. “Hey,” he murmurs. “…Love you.”

Cas breathes. Puts down his tea. Digs the heels of his hands into his eyes.

“Sweetheart.”

“I hate feeling like this,” Castiel mumbles. “I hate wanting to be… normal. There is no normal! Human sexuality is complicated, and complex, and I’ve spent _so long_ working to—to love myself _because_ of who I am but it’s just… I’m just…” He shakes his head, swallowing thickly in an attempt to stop himself from welling up. “I should be over this by now!”

“Cas—”

“I’m sorry; I ruined it.”

Dean hums thoughtfully. He moves so they’re sitting back to chest, his chin resting on Cas’s shoulder and hand moving to rest over his chest. “I don’t think you ruined it,” he says quietly.

“Yeah, well,” Castiel mutters. “You love me; you’re biased.”

“And you’re upset,” Dean counters. “Feels kinda like we’re at an impasse.”

Cas turns to glare at him, the expression crumbling as Dean rubs at his cheek and presses kisses to his chin. “C’mooon,” he teases. “Let’s get some leftover chili and watch old Earth movies.”

Castiel kisses him. It’s ridiculous—pointless, fruitless, _uncomfortable_ , but there’s something fragile and shaking taking up residence in his chest and if he just tries one more time maybe he can—maybe they’ll… Cas guides Dean’s between his legs again, wrapping freckled fingers around his soft prick. Dean touches without real purpose.

“…Fine,” he eventually breathes out against Dean’s mouth. _Be normal be **normal** damn you._ “Chili and movies.”

Dean beams. “That’s the spirit!” He gives Cas’s ass a squeeze and a quick peck on the lips. “One for the road,” he explains.

And then he walks out of their room, completely naked.

Cas flops back onto the bed.

He’s lounging by the time Dean returns, having calmed some in his time alone. For a person who claims to be allergic to such things, Dean is probably the most emotionally intuitive person he knows. He slips back into the room with two bowls in his hands and a bag full of cheese in his mouth. Cas watches him approach the bed in amusement. “I assume nobody saw you? I didn’t hear any screaming.”

“Seeing me naked is a privilege, Castiel.”

Cas gives a small smile to his bowl. His shoulders droop a little. “…I know.”

“Ah—no, Cas, that’s not what I—”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “I know that, too.” His voice cracks, blinking back tears despite his smile. He bites his lip. “And I don’t know why I keep—why I’m so—”

“Baby,” Dean murmurs. He takes Cas’s face in his hands. Presses a sweet kiss to his lips. “Sometimes, it just happens like this. Sometimes, sex is a disaster—which, by the way, this wasn’t. Remember that Xarthusian? _That_ was a disaster.”

“Dean, you were _beaten up_ —”

“Yeah, and then you played nurse, remember? And then I kissed you… I mean, I can’t even hate it because who knows how long it woulda taken for us to get together otherwise.”

“That seems—”

“Whatever,” Dean waves off. “Doesn’t matter. I’m having a great time tonight. Are you?”

“Other than the obvious,” Cas grumbles.

“Then that’s all that matters.”

“You can’t tell me you’re never disappointed. It’s been eighteen years! Eighteen years of—of failed orgasms and this unresponsive body and you’ve never once wished—”

“Hold on, now, nobody said anything about being unresponsive—”

Cas narrows his eyes. “Dean, I don’t _work_ that way.”

“Uh… yeah,” he counters. “You do.”

He moves close enough for their noses to brush, smiling crookedly at Cas’s unimpressed stare. Puts their food on the floor and gathers Castiel in his arms, continuing to nuzzle and kiss and work at his neck and jaw and ears until Cas is a puddle of a human being, pressing them together and moving sluggishly in his attempts to obtain a real kiss.

“Yeah,” Dean murmurs. “There you are.”

When he finally presses a kiss to Cas’s mouth, he keeps it light despite the fact that Cas wants to be swapping saliva. Dean grins at his groan of frustration, moving to press all six feet of Castiel into the pillows.

He’s at half-mast when he presses their groins together, but when Cas reaches for him, Dean bats his hand away. “Nope,” he says. “I ain’t done with you yet.”

“Nothing’s going to hap— _oh._ ”

Dean snorts, continuing to drag his fingertips down Cas’s ribs to his hip, over his ass and thigh. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Totally unresponsive. You’re not blissed out _at all_.”

“Not— _mm_ , not the same thing,” Castiel counters.

“Yeah, it’s better.” He’s kissing just above Cas’s groin now, at that place that makes him shivery and unstable. “When you’re into it, I can keep you here for hours. No refractory time. Hell, I can get you here in the friggin’ Batcave, because when I do this…” He moves to tease at Cas’s hair, brushes his mouth along stubble until he’s at his ear. “You’re fried.”

Cas blushes furiously, hair standing on end as he squirms and shivers. The touch hits his scalp like a thousand tiny sparks zipping down his neck to steal his breath. He whimpers. Dean grins. “It’s like ten times better than any orgasm, because you _love_ it,” he grins. “Seriously, this shit is like Cas-specific crack.”

He leans in for a kiss.

“’Sides, you thought I wouldn’t notice your obsession with naked cuddling? Eighteen years, man. You ain’t subtle.”

Cas sighs into the contact, wrapping himself around Dean’s body with a smile that has Dean pulling away to look. He gazes down at Castiel with a smile of his own, tracing the line of his stubbled jaw. “See? I’m like… the Cas whisperer. I can play you like a vio-whatever. That Earth instrument with the strings.”

“Violin,” Castiel grins.

“Mmhm. I just had to learn the right notes.”

Castiel feels himself melt. “…Thank you,” he says quietly.

“Nah,” Dean shrugs. “’S a privilege, right? To make you feel this way.”

Cas blushes at his own words parroted back to him, but concedes with a nod.

“Then we’re good.” Dean wriggles his brows. “You hungry?”

“I could eat.”

They’ve barely started, Dean shovelling large spoonfuls into his mouth in comparison to Cas’s more sedate pace when he nudges Castiel with his elbow. “Hey, Cas?”

Cas looks up from his bowl.

“…I also just wanted to say, uh—and I know you know this, you were the one who taught me all this crap but—y’know, sexuality and stuff, it’s variable. And weird. And it doesn’t, like, determine your worth _at all._ I figure that’s sometimes hard to remember, but it doesn’t make it any less true.”

Cas feels his heart squeeze. “Dean…”

“I mean, all that really matters is what feels good, right? As long as there are ways to make you feel good, shouldn’t matter how that happens; if it’s not sex, then it’s not sex. If it’s making me feel good, or getting your hair played with or keeping a collection of cheeses, then… what-the-fuck-ever. If it’s not good for you, then why the hell would it ever be good for me? Plus, I mean, eighteen years with the same person is—it’s work. Like, it’s great, and losing my bad boy rep was totally worth it, but… I wouldna done it if I wasn’t just embarrassingly in love with you.” He pushes around his food with a shrug, his cheeks glowing with a blush that colours the tips of his ears. “So, uh. Yeah.”

Calmly, Cas takes his bowl.

“Hey—!”

And kisses him.

“I was eating that,” Dean mumbles through a smiley press of lips.

“Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

Cas grins back. “No, I’m not.”

~ * ~

It’s these moments Cas likes the most; when Dean is soft against him, pulling a blanket over their nakedness to stave off the chill. They need to fix the generator—they’ve been needing to for at least three systems, but Cas suspects this has little to do with Dean being unable to find the parts and more with the reasoning that colder temperatures provide a better excuse to cuddle.

Their bowls of chili have been abandoned next to the bed, which has no night table or box spring or frame because Castiel likes feeling the hum through Baby’s floor. He likes the big window that allows them to look out into the vast darkness, broken up by coloured gases, blinding stars and unexplored galaxies. He likes the in-between, when they’re not risking their lives, and they’re fed and warm, and Dean’s draped over him—resting between Cas’s spread legs, hand tracing up-and-down his side, eyes trained on _The Breakfast Club_.

Cas has long abandoned the film for more interesting things. He runs fingers through Dean’s hair and marvels at the nebulae of freckles that cluster on his shoulders, scratches through the short hairs on his jaw. Dean grins and playfully nips at his wrist, never looking away from the screen. He is lovely and unguarded and Castiel is suddenly, overwhelmingly aware that he’s stumbled into a great love without even trying. That Dean knows him in every way there is to know another person. That he loves him _because_ of that.

“Hey, you good?”

It’s a routine question, and Cas nods, rubbing at his cheekbone with a contented smile.

“Yes.”

_“Like a force to be reckoned with  
A mighty ocean or a gentle kiss  
I will love you with every single thing I have  
Like a tidal wave, I'll make a mess  
Or calm waters if that serves you best  
I will love you without any strings attached  
I will love you without a single string attached”_

— _Two, Sleeping at Last_


End file.
